I’ll never forget the morning I walked out of my house dressed as a woman. For the first time in my life, I felt fear. I realized in that moment that my very existence as a trans woman put me at risk. Risk of losing my job, family, and friends, being discriminated against, assaulted, even killed.
Up until this point I had lived my life as a cisgender, heterosexual man and I had never felt afraid to leave my house or walk alone at night. Now I carry mace, plan what I do and where I go carefully, and I pay attention to people and my surroundings like my life depends on it. And I think it does, but the biggest danger I faced was not coming out at all.
Every winter of my adult life my depression became more severe. Despite the outward success I was enjoying, the life I was living felt like a façade that was cracking. Finally, in December two years ago, my life shattered and I began to think about how and when I would take my own life, not if. I didn’t think I could live any longer with the pain caused from feeling stuck living as a man while every ounce of my being felt like I need to be living as a woman.
At that point, coming out did not seem like an option. Death seemed preferable. It wasn’t because I was married with two teenage children. I knew my family would love me no matter what. It was because it would mean living in a world that was hostile to trans people. Hostile in subtle ways. Hostile in violent ways.
Just over a year ago, early in my transition, I moved to Salt Lake City to be among friends, and live as woman. Since the moment I arrived, with a few minor exceptions, I have experienced only acceptance and love from this community. I have benefitted from some of the best gender-affirming health care in the country, insurance to help pay for it, and I have received a seemingly endless amount of encouragement and support from friends and strangers alike. Yet, I feel fortunate to be alive.
Now, at the age of 50, I am beginning to feel comfortable in my own skin. And, as I feel accepted and loved as a woman, I am beginning to accept and love myself. People are regularly congratulating me and telling me how courageous I am to have come out and transitioned, socially and physically. And, until recently, I loved it.
I don’t love it anymore. I overcame debilitating fear, depression and addiction. But there’s nothing to congratulate me on. I’ve had every safety net imaginable. I’ve had all the assets, resources, education, physical health, friends, family and community to make this transition. Most trans people don’t have the safety nets I’ve had. I’m one of the lucky ones and it’s hardly worth a congratulations.
In 2022, young trans people are facing a renewed effort to erase their identity with the rising tide of anti-trans sentiment and the onslaught of anti-trans legislation we’re seeing in dozens of states. Suicide and attempted suicide rates of trans, including non-binary and all gender-expansive, youth are already extremely high. Reliable survey data suggests that in 2020, 52% of all transgender and nonbinary young people in the U.S. seriously contemplated killing themselves. These statistics, and my own experience, illustrate how dangerous it is to be young and trans and not be out, not have access to gender-affirming health care, not be able to transition and not be able to live authentically.
It is dangerous to come out, physically transition, and live as a trans person in our country today. Yet, it is arguably more dangerous not to.
It shouldn’t take courage to come out as trans. It shouldn’t take courage to live as trans. And it shouldn’t be dangerous not to because trans youth and their families are denied gender-affirming health care, which has been shown to dramatically improve the mental health of trans youth and radically reduce the risk of them taking, or attempting to take, their own lives. To protect lives, we must protect transgender rights.
Cori Lovejoy
Cori Lovejoy, Salt Lake City, is a leadership coach and consultant dedicated to creating organizational cultures that are diverse, inclusive, equitable, and ultimately, compassionate.
